The hunter was riding leisurely up the steep mountain side above Dry
Mesa. On such an ascent most city men would have preferred to climb
afoot. But there was a month's layer of tan on the hunter's handsome,
supercilious face. He balanced himself lightly on his flat English
saddle, and permitted the wiry little cow pony to pick the best path
over the ledges and up the stiff slopes between the scattered pines.

In keeping with his saddle, the hunter wore English riding breeches
and leggins. Otherwise he was dressed as a Texas cowboy of the past
generation. His sombrero was almost Mexican in its size and
ornateness... Continue reading book >>